Bon Appetite. That’s of Course You If Know What You’re Eating!
Not long ago I was invited to lunch by a former client to one the city's more 'fashionable' restaurants.
It was this two-hour experience that convinced me that high-end test restaurants tend to compete with each other when crafting their menus, with bewildering descriptions of the haute cuisine dishes on offer distracting the diner from the astronomical prices hidden in three-point type at the edge of the page.
Within seconds of being seated, our overattentive waiter whipped the napkins, folded like origami swans in flight, from the table with a flourish that would have made any self-reflecting matador envious, before draping them across our laps.
Then, in one fluid motion, he produced the wine list, a leather-bound document the size and thickness of the King James bible. My companion, a seasoned wine buff, paged through the parchment-like pages and made his choice, which obviously pleased our waiter. So it should have given the price hovered just under the four-figure mark.
Once done, he discreetly retired, only to return a few seconds later with two menus.
The construction of these giant tomes was such that, when opened, it was like holding up a broadsheet newspaper, but so heavy it could easily shelter a family of four caught in a monsoon downpour. To discuss a certain item with one's dining companion entailed leaning to the left and to the right to establish eye contact, a bit like having a conversation around the corner of a high-rise building.
Our arms, trembling with fatigue, were rescued when our waiter returned and offered us, " an amusing little something to titillate the palette." The titillation turned out to be a minuscule scallop diligently performing backstroke in a shallow puddle of colourful jus, topped with a 'crafted' sprig of something green.
One swallow and the amuse bouche was gone, and it was back to the arduous task of raising the wall-sized menus to wade through three paragraphs devoted slavishly to describing each entree.
Looking around at our fellow diners, I see a sea of menu covers held upright, resembling a swathe of Roman legionnaires' shields as if warding off a sea of arrows. I know I am not alone when trying to decipher the dishes written in something akin to ancient Sanskrit. Printed on delicate parchment, the pages of the menu were no doubt handcrafted from Nile bulrush stems, rolled flat on the thighs of Egyptian virgins.
Finally, arms trembling under the weight, I had no option but to make a choice between something I think was described as, "A brace of Bolivian humming birds, flash seared and arranged playfully on a bed of wilted Laotian high mountain grass, drizzled with a hint of larks vomit," Or the specialty of the house, " The Terrine of Antarctic whale barnacles, energetically poached in fresh Pacific seawater and teased with spray of Sardinian frangipani oils".
The task of ordering complete, we handed back the house-sized menus and awaited the fruits of our labours. It appeared that my dining companion's order, after his auspicious choice of wine, met with our waiter's approval as he tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially, acknowledging that one of us had made a splendid choice.
The plates, when they arrived, were the size of tractor tyres. The meals lounged about, resembling Thomas Moore's statues dwarfed in the middle of a sea of white porcelain.
My hummingbirds were arranged as if they decided that it was once again time to take flight, invigorated no doubt by the flash searing, as they reached vainly for the ceiling.
Why is it that chefs feel the need to 'sculpt' something that, in an instant, will be swallowed in one bite or take great pains to present an offering bordering on the indecent?
My companion's rack of something, simmering in who knows what? stood to attention on his plate like a gigantic erection engorged by a double dose of Viagra.
The wine came in barrel-sized goblets ensuring one's entire face disappeared into the bowl each time you took a sip. Coffee too, when served was in a vessel closely resembling a gravy boat requiring the drinker to pour the contents into one's mouth from the elongated spout.
Thankfully, the meal was soon over, and we could take our leave.
We departed. I was famished, having consumed in just four delicate bites the entire portion of the miniature birds. We declined the dessert offerings and instead chose coffee, only to battle with the oversized espresso crockery.
The bill, again presented with a flourish, equalled the gross domestic product of a small African Country.
As we said our farewells outside, just in case we were in earshot of any passing 'fashionable" diners, we both pronounced the cuisine scrumptious.
At the McDonald’s drive-through on the way home, and my hunger satisfied, I decided that I might give the more upmarket bistros a miss this festive season, but take more interest in the TV series Chef's Table
Paul V Walters is an internationally acclaimed novelist who, when not cocooned in sloth and procrastination in his house in Bali, scribbles for several global travel and vox pop journals. His latest novel, ‘RITUAL will be released in August 2025 and was launched at the International Ubud Readers and Writers Festival. and is now in wide relief.
